rses and donkeys were waiting for us where we had left them; and
we rode rapidly back _via_ the Hermitage, but over the plain of lava,
instead of by the zig-zag road, toward Portici. Ghita ran all the way by
my side, but rarely spoke, except to tell me when we approached a steep
declivity. I should have felt jealous had she attended to any one else;
but was quite angry at hearing her jestingly spoken of as "my conquest."
A single vulgar remark sometimes throws cold water on the most delicate
sentiment.

At Portici she left us. The guides were paid, and every body forgot the
volcano-girl who had been of such signal service to us. I looked for
her, and saw her standing in the court-yard with the back of her little
hand to her mouth in a pensive attitude. "Ghita," said I, approaching,
"I must give you something"--she started slightly--"that you may buy a
remembrance with it of our visit to the volcano." In such a form, the
present--I did not write the amount down among my disbursements--was
accepted frankly and freely. The poor girl was evidently in a state of
great emotion: a few kind words from me had struck upon a chord ever
ready to vibrate; the truth is, she sobbed, and could not answer. But
when the tongue falters, and the lip trembles in the South, there is an
eloquent substitute for language. She took my hand, and kissed it
fervently, and a shower of warm tear-drops fell upon it. "Ghita," I
murmured, trying to be firm, but bending over her with the tenderest
affection--I can not help it; I have an instinctive love for the
sorrowful--"Ghita, you are unhappy? Can I do any thing for you?" "No,"
was her answer, as she again pressed my hand, and, gliding away,
disappeared like a shadow in the street.

We were at Naples an hour after midnight; but I found it impossible to
sleep. I could think of nothing save the story of the volcano-girl; for
the substance of her story was evident--the material details alone were
wanting. I afterward learned the whole truth. A volume might be filled
with them: a line will be sufficient. She had been betrothed to a young
man, a guide, who had perished during a visit to the volcano: she had
gone mad in consequence--of a gentle, harmless madness in general; but
as a few brutal people insulted her, she was sometimes suspicious of
strangers. She gained her living by selling ornaments of polished lava,
or by guiding travelers. This was all; but it was enough. I have kept a
place in my memory